


This is How the Trip to IKEA Starts

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [30]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comforting Dean, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, M/M, Nightmares, Older Characters, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Series, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychic Sam, Squabbling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:23:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2109777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean sleep in queen-sized beds. One Saturday morning changes that, followed by a trip to IKEA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is How the Trip to IKEA Starts

Sunday mornings should not start before nine.

Dean scrunches his eyes against the noise from the living room. Dammit. Tossing and turning for a few minutes yields nothing; he can't get back to sleep. An attempt at eight hours of uninterrupted sleep is ruined. On top of that, as he begins to open his eyes, there's one long hair draped over his face. Two scrubs at his face and the hair is still there. What the fuck. Angrily, he sits up and finally, the hair detaches from his upper lip.

A glance over at the pillow next to his proves that a Sasquatch invaded his bed in the middle of the night. Snorting and swiping at his face--it feels like the hair is still there, even though he knows it's not--Dean prepares a lecture in his head.

This isn't going to work.

There are queen sized beds in their rooms and in the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. Last summer, Dean repainted everything. When they moved in six years ago, they went with cool colors because Sam spoke to an interior decorator--pffft--and that's what they agreed on without consulting Dean. This time, Dean switched it and went with warmer colors. He doesn't regret the peach-beige he selected for his room no matter how much Sam bitches about it. It's classy.

Grabbing his cane, Dean hefts himself off his bed. Bathroom first, then annoying little brothers with the television on too loud in the morning while others are trying to sleep. Dean's mood does not improve when his cane hits a pair of underwear on the floor, causing him to slip a little. Swearing, Dean kicks the offensive briefs out of the way.

There are only two sizes of beds that they're used to: twins or queens. Watching Sam trying to sleep in a twin bed has always been amusing--there's no bed, only Sam. So it seemed simple when they moved in and assessed the size of the rooms that queens would do best without overcrowding the space.

Signs of Sam are prevalent in Dean's bathroom. His toothbrush is next to Dean's, and his brand of toothpaste is on the countertop too. There's a whole bunch of stuff cluttering the countertop, actually, and none of it is Dean's. Two brushes, a hairdryer, deodorant that isn't his, and a wristwatch are scattered like it's no big deal.

Definitely not going to work.

Finishing up in the bathroom, Dean also finishes his lecture. Men in their forties shouldn't have to have their older brothers pick up after them. Sometimes it's like following a tornado of laundry, or dishes, or toiletries.

Sure enough, all the pillows on the largest couch have been tossed to the floor, which irritates Dean because pillows do not belong there--the least Sam could have done was throw them on the smaller couch two feet away. Anywhere but the floor. There's a mug of coffee on the coffee table, with no coaster underneath it and Dean doesn't mean to sound prissy, but he's tired of rings on that table. Sam loves to give him shit about his vinyl taking up so much space in the garage, but he can't fucking manage to set his mug on top of one of four coasters Dean picked up at the rummage sale last month.

Dean raises his cane, ready to whack Sam in the shin with it. Sam has the television on, turned to some boring but loud History Channel show about food. He's sprawled out, lying down on his side, his face smashed into the arm of the couch.

The Sasquatch is asleep.

A sharp, quick sweep of the living room yields a few more articles of evidence. Dean pieces the scene together: the coffee is cool, which means it was made a few hours ago; one of the blankets from the oak chest has been pulled out, but it too has been tossed onto the floor, so the struggle to fall asleep was intense. To top it all off, there's a plate sitting on top of a book on the side table, crumbs and a small piece of cheese left on it.

Sasquatch got up at around five and tried to sleep on the couch. When that failed, he made coffee, probably closer to seven. Paired with the coffee was the book, which Sam picked up a week ago and hasn't finished; he's been complaining nonstop about the unreliable narrator and Dean wishes that instead of griping about the book, he'd just start a new one.

Finally, when the coffee and book didn't succeed in keeping him awake and starting his day, Sasquatch rummaged through the fridge, made himself a quick grilled cheese, turned on the television, and fell asleep soon after.

Ten bucks says that the right side of Sam's face is red and splotchy from the couch.

Dean sighs and leans on his cane.

Definitely, certainly not gonna work.

After thirty seconds, Dean gets going. He picks up the mug and the plate, taps over to the kitchen, and cleans up. Once everything is washed--and Dean takes a few sips of the cold coffee--he ambles back over to the living room. His knee isn't killing him today, so he's able to pick up the pillows and blanket from the floor. The next item to attend to is not as simply taken care of. Standing at the edge of the couch, Dean looks down at Sam.

The last time Dean was able to scoop his brother into his arms and carry him must have been, what, about thirty years ago? Jesus. Are they really that old? It's closer to forty years ago, if he thinks about it.

Either way, Dean is not about to attempt picking Sam up. Even without the bum knee, this is a David and Goliath situation. Dean isn't a short man, but he isn't Sasquatch-sized either. And if Dean wants to not throw out his back so he can keep going to work, hauling Sam off the couch isn't the way to go about that. Working part-time at the shop doesn't bring in the bacon. For a little while, as Dean transitioned from forty hours to twenty, he resented Sam for earning more. While Dean never made as much as Sam did for full-time work, at least he could say he was still working his ass off. Twenty hours seemed like nothing.

But Dean's paycheck is still important, despite his hours being halved. They live off of Sam's salary--pay the mortgage, the insurance, the house insurance, the car insurance, utilities, and groceries, etc.--but they save Dean's checks in a savings account under an alias. Sam bribed one of his accountant friends from work to set up the account for them. Things like that make Sam happy. Dean was fine keeping the cash in a lock box.

Focus. The problem right now is how to get Sasquatch from the couch back to bed.

Scratching his head, Dean looks around. Do they have a sled? Wheelbarrow's in the garage.

A snort from the couch grabs Dean's attention. Sasquatch reaches out to his left, still asleep, his hair a complete mess. Groping the couch cushions does not soothe the sleeping beast; instead, it seems to create a panic. The features on Sasquatch's face twist and distort in varying, alarming degrees.

One of the coasters on the coffee table starts to spin in place by itself. Breathing from the couch gets louder; the coaster rises an inch above the table, wobbling like a flying saucer from a low-budget sci-fi movie, and the moment Sam cries out, reaching to the left of him, the coaster shoots off the table and crashes into the television screen.

Never wake up a Winchester in the middle of a nightmare. Doing so is a guaranteed punch to the face. There are rules in place for each of them. The shatter of the television screen, however, disrupts those rules. Sam sits up with a gasp, sucking air in, his eyes snapping open towards the sound of the screen crumbling. Mouth in the shape of an O, Sam stares at the television for a second before looking at Dean.

"I'm sorry," Sam blurts out. His eyes are red and his chest is heaving. "I'll... I'll fix it..."

"Sam."

"I don't know... I was... Shit."

"Sam."

"What!?"

"Calm down."

"This keeps happening, Dean! How can I calm down? I... I've tried everything... I'm exhausted but I don't wanna sleep and oh god... I just fucking broke the TV! How the fuck can I be calm?"

At this, Dean raises his cane and taps it hard on the floor, shutting Sam up with the sound of it, looking him square in the eye. "Stop talking," is ordered. "If I say there's nothing to worry about, then there's nothing to worry about. Right?" Sam hesitates to answer. Dean does it for him. "Right." He motions towards the television. "That hunk of junk was on its last legs. You can buy me a new one and call it my Christmas present. But don't go cheap on me, motherfucker, I want something HD."

Still sitting on the couch, Sam's shoulders slump forward. He buries his face in his hands, shaking his head, trying to tell Dean that yeah, he's worried about the television, but that's not the biggest problem here. Dean knows that. He's getting there. He just wishes Sam would have told him sooner.

Two steps forward are taken. Dean holds out his hand. He clears his throat to get Sam's attention, and once he does, he helps Sam off the couch. "Follow me, asshole," Dean grumbles, leading the way.

Down the hallway they go, the floorboards creaking, and they turn into Dean's room. From the doorway, Dean points at his dresser with his cane.

"I need you to move that into your room." He points at the two crates of vinyl he has on the floor next to the dresser as well. "Those can go out in the garage with the rest. I'm gonna eat something, shower, and we'll go. You'll have to move the armchair out of the way too, but that can be done after. I just wanna see what it looks like without the dresser."

Blinking at the room and then at Dean, Sam mumbles out, "What?"

Dean walks over to his dresser and opens a drawer to fish out a clean shirt. "I don't want you bringing food in here, Sam. Or your laptop. This is a bedroom, not a fucking office. We can convert your room into an office, if you want, but I don't want you shut up in there either. It ain't right." Tossing his selected shirt onto the dresser, he looks up at Sam. "Oh. And I don't want laundry all over the fucking floor. Do you think I like picking up your sweaty, wrinkly underwear? Do you think it's the joy in my life to walk in here and see your briefs balled up on my dresser or for me to trip on them when they’re on the god damn floor? Think again, jerkass."

For a moment, they both stare at each other. Sam's mouth is open; Dean's lips are pursed. Sam slouches; Dean stands up straight, cane in front of him.

"C'mon," Dean snaps and turns towards his bathroom. "I hate going to IKEA on a Saturday. But you can buy me some Swedish meatballs. Ah, I don't wanna hear your shit about my cholesterol, either."

"There's horsemeat in 'em," is said quietly, from the doorway.

"So? We've had worse. Remember that diner outside of Newark? Place could have used some horsemeat."

"I... I hate this color, Dean."

"Tough nuggets. I like it."

"You snore."

"Yep."

"And you go to bed insanely early, like the old man you are."

"That I do, Sammy."

"So."

"So?" Dean raises his eyebrows.

"So..." Sam's eyes meet Dean's again. "I... guess I'll have to put up with it."

A smile tugs at Dean's mouth. He looks away for a second and proceeds to the bathroom. They'll be on the road in half an hour, drive out to the burbs, push through the weekend crowd at IKEA, be idiots and try out every single model bed on floor, pick out a king-sized bed frame, select a nice mattress, have it all shipped to them with installation and mattress removal for both queens, and Sam's going to pay for it. Then, they'll head three streets over and go to the Best Buy for a similar process, and Dean's going to pick out something that will play the Blu-Ray copy of _A Fistful of Dollars_ beautifully. He's going to see Clint Eastwood in HD glory.

Afterwards, they'll come back, clean up, and have a few more rounds at testing the durability of the last queen-sized bed they'll ever sleep in.

"Guess you will," Dean replies. He isn't surprised when Sam follows him into the bathroom. He isn't surprised when Sam pushes them together, chest to chest, places his hands on Dean's face and seals their mouths together. He isn't surprised to feel the tension that has spread all over Sam, dissipate with a soft moan and an appreciative lick of the inside of Dean's mouth.

 

Dean is going to insist that Sam buy him a Blu-Ray copy of _The_ _Planet of the Apes_ , too.

Because Dean knows. He just knows.

In two weeks, he's going to be picking up underwear off the floor again. 

**Author's Note:**

> eee an unexpected addition to TCV. i love writing the remnants of Sam's psychic abilities. i also love thinking about Sam having nightmares for a while and gradually moving into Dean's space, taking it over, because the only thing that helps with the nightmares--and to control his psychic abilities during them--is sleeping with Dean. Dean sleeps on the left, by the way.
> 
> i have the next chapter of House 3/4 finished also! yay! :D looks like the writing block is over. <333
> 
> this is a gift for C, who contributed to my tablet fund. thank you so much! this was written on the beauty. :D


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